The Soldier on the Right
by Ailsa89
Summary: I wondered what it would feel like as one of the soldiers in The Last Alliance of Elves and Men. In this I try to potray the terror, compassion and guilt that pass through a young soldier trained to fight for years but when faced with warfare, can only fe


The Soldier on the Right  
  
As we march against Mordor, I wonder who will remember me. Will I be recorded? Will I be honoured? I do not know if I will survive this. I clutch my sword hilt tighter. The golden shields of the elves shimmer dimly on the opposite hillside. And everywhere else swarm orcs. There are flickers of arrows and another one falls. One out of millions. He's in amongst them somewhere. I can sense Him already. Sauron the Deceiver, Sauon the Dark Lord, Sauron whom I fear most of all. I swore to give my life for the freedom of Middle-Earth. I'll never break my allegiance to King Elendil. For is that not why I am here today? Why I hold my sword and swallow down all the doubts?  
  
We halt and a rustle of armour passes through our troops. I'm in the second row, the soldier on the right. If only someone could fly above us and paint the scene below. Of course, others will try and capture all the blood and toil afterwards. But afterwards, you can never feel that picture. Lord Elrond is a great artist. Yes, I would send him high overhead if I could, and let him paint the world below him. Those thousands of orcs, roaring and cursing.  
  
I once wondered if orcs have families. No one has ever told me of such a thing and it seems unlikely. But what if they have sons? What if they have wives and siblings that care for them? But they fight in battles. But then a harsh thought strikes me. So do we. Honest men and the fair elves fight bitterly to save their own. It does not matter who they fight; they just must because someone higher than they instruct it. Therefore, what right have I to destroy orcs who have others who love them? Then again, what right have they to destroy me? In some ways, orcs and men are equals.  
  
I grip my sword tighter until I feel the chainmail dig into my flesh. My nerves are alive and throbbing with fire. My brow is sticky with sweat under my helmet. The landscape wavers. I hear Lord Elrond's loud voice boom out as the first line of orcs advance. A sheet of arrows buzz from behind me and I flinch as their feathered tails skim my cheek. The running orcs fall back and they tumble over the limp bodies. Who were they? What were their names? And who will care? Then they are among us, like weeds seeping up from the roots of trees, breaking in where they are not wanted. My sword blade comes down heavy and hard on a helmet and I feel it sink through soft skin. I close my eyes and wonder whom have I just killed. Was it a he or a she? My eyes snap open in the sudden realisation that I don't know even that. People are barging past me, eager for the kill. And all I can do is stand there, the sword hanging from my hand, staring down at the corpse before me. I have been trained all my life for this. But now.  
  
Blood spills through my fingers and I can feel the blade ramming into me from the side. It doesn't make it through the armour but it stings like a hundred bees. And I turn on the beast with eyes of flame. What right has he? What right? I swing my sword in an arc and cleave the head from his shoulders. He dies with a long shriek. And I am in the frey, twisting and weaving and moving like an adder to its prey.  
  
I see Sauron. Just a glimpse but there he stands. That gangly black giant; as if fashioned from coal. And then he is gone. But I follow his path by the sounds of screams and cries. A man spins over my head, dead before he hits the ground. I stare at his frozen face in horror then turn back. My eyes meet with a hand. Gloved fingers gripping a tall mace. My head moves up, eyes taking in every terrible detail. Our gazes meet but he does not swing. Does not lift his weapon to deal the fatal blow. He moves away like smoke. The last thing I remember is blinding white light.  
  
I wake in a long room. Is the man walking round the Valar? He turns to me and all I can see is a normal man. A scar runs across his forehead. I break down into tears. My cheeks are soaked.  
  
"I am alive!" I sob, "I survived!"  
  
And the healer does not come to comfort me. For so many others in the chamber are weeping too. Feeling the heavy guilt flooding their body in the knowledge that are living. Hundreds are dead. It does not matter who won or lost but all those men saw their comrades fall. The dead man's face is burned into my mind. The pale fear. And here I lie, wounded but alive. And with only memories of what has been. If I was dead, I could pray for another. Someone else has done that for me. A dead soldier, maybe even the one I saw fall beside me from the air, prayed for me to live.  
  
Now every night I cry myself to sleep. I weep bitterly for lost loved ones. And I cannot help but lament for the orcs who fell also. The nameless warriors who flew at us from all sides. For, in some ways, orcs and men are equals. 


End file.
